


at the table

by erebones



Series: chef au [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Cooking, First Dates, First Time, Food, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Multiple, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 23:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: A dinner date that is definitely not a date, Bodhi, don't look at me like that. It's callednetworking.





	at the table

**Author's Note:**

> The dish Baze makes for Chirrut was inspired by a convo in ragethirst, but I no longer recall the participants. :P

“What do you think?”

Bodhi is quiet for a minute, and Chirrut holds still, taking care not to fidget. He doesn’t want Bodhi to think he’s _nervous_. Nervous, of all things! Instead he grips his cane a little harder than necessary and runs through the evening’s schedule in his mind. Bodhi had volunteered to drive him to Baze’s flat in the South Quarter, which was a little too far to walk comfortably. Normally Chirrut would have just hailed a cab, but he preferred the familiarity of Bodhi’s beat-up little sedan. Baze had texted earlier in the day to confirm their dinner arrangements—a simple home-cooked meal, he had promised, made just for Chirrut.

Anticipation swells in his throat, and he coughs to clear it. “That bad?”

“What? No, not at all! You look fantastic,” Bodhi says, with all the earnestness of youth. “You look sharp, but casual.”

“I won’t embarrass myself showing up like this?”

“Definitely not.” He approaches with a heavy tread and puts his hand on Chirrut’s shoulder. “You’re going to blow him out of the water.”

“Hmm,” Chirrut says neutrally. He certainly wouldn’t mind it if Baze found him attractive, but thinking about it and acting on it were two different things. “We’ll see how it goes. Promise me you won’t wait up,” he adds sternly. “After this, I don’t want you babysitting me any further tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” Bodhi says, far too cheerful by half. “Come on, we should get a move on. Don’t want to give your date the wrong impression, do we?”

“It’s not a _date_ ,” Chirrut complains, but he allows Bodhi to hand him a light jacket and lead the way down to the carpark. “It’s… it’s just dinner. Between colleagues. Nothing more.”

“Colleagues, huh? So what is this, networking?”

“Exactly.” Chirrut nods, satisfied, and props his hands over the top of his cane when he settles in the passenger seat.

“Right. It was also definitely networking when you were up voice chatting last night until midnight?”

“ _Bodhi_.” He gives his shoulder a light smack, and tries not to smile at Bodhi’s delighted chortle. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And _you’re_ predictable.” Bodhi is quiet for a bit as they ease into the traffic of the main road, the floor vibrating under Chirrut’s feet from the age-old engine, before he pipes up again, “You know if anything goes horribly wrong you can just text me, right? And I’ll be there in a flash.”

“No babysitting, Rook.”

“I _know_. I’m _not_. This is just—as your friend. Man to, uh, man.”

Chirrut snorts. “If you call me your _bro_ I may have to seriously reconsider my stance on that friendship you mentioned.”

Bodhi shudders dramatically. “I would never!”

“Glad to hear it.”

They drive the rest of the way in silence, and Chirrut realizes that Bodhi’s joshing has successfully ironed out the last of the butterflies. By the time the blinker comes on, metallically _click-click-clicking_ in his ear, he’s almost entirely calm and collected. Then Bodhi blurts, “Oh look, he’s waiting outside for you,” and everything goes to hell again.

Chirrut draws in a deep breath. And asks, finally, against his better judgement, “What does he look like?”

“Tall,” Bodhi says immediately, putting the car in park to let it idle against the curb. Chirrut already knew that, but he refrains from saying so, letting Bodhi conjure an impression for him unmolested. “He’s… uh, built like a brick shithouse, to be honest. Broad. Muscular, I guess, but he’s got… softness to him, too. Long hair in a queue. A little bit of beard. He kind of looks like a biker—a biker who bakes,” he adds, voice thick with laughter, and Chirrut smiles.

“His face… is it intimidating?”

“A little, maybe? But it’s soft, too, like the rest of him.” His throat clicks in a swallow. _Bodhi is nervous on my behalf, bless his heart._ “He has the face of a friend.”

Chirrut smiles. “That’s good enough for me.” He reaches out and pats Bodhi’s thigh. “Thank you for the ride. I’ll let you know how the night pans out.”

Bodhi wishes him luck, and he climbs out of the car. The evening is cool against his face, and a little bit damp—it’s going to rain, later. He finds the edge of the curb with his cane and steps up onto the sidewalk.

“I hope I’m not too late,” he says, putting on a friendly smile when he hears footsteps approach. There’s a part of him that’s still waiting to be dropped into free-fall, but then someone—Baze, of course—gives a low, guttural laugh from just a few feet away.

“Not at all. You, um. You look nice.”

The words are utterly bashful, and Chirrut’s chest swells with a potent brew of relief and affection. “Thank you. I’ll have to take your word for it. I’m not underdressed, am I?” he adds worriedly.

“No! Definitely not. I, um, went the casual route, too.” There’s a pause, and Chirrut hears Bodhi put the car in gear and move off down the street. He feels unmoored, but not entirely lost at sea—Baze’s voice is too low and comfortable for him to feel unsafe. “That was your cab?”

“My neighbor, actually,” Chirrut admits with a laugh. “And my cameraman, Bodhi Rook. He insisted on chauffeuring me here, though I told him I would get a cab home. No sense in making him wait up for me.”

He regrets it almost as soon as it’s out of his mouth— _how late do you expect to be, Imwe?_ he asks himself irritably—but Baze seems unconcerned. “D’you want to come in?”

“That would be lovely.” Chirrut takes the plunge, switching his cane to his left hand and holding out the crook of his right elbow.

There’s a too-long moment, stretched like saltwater taffy, in which Chirrut fears that his invitation will go unanswered. And then relief bursts over him, _again_ , as he feels a sturdy hand rest gently against the inside of his arm and guide him along a smooth walkway to the front door. There are a few steps, which he maneuvers with his cane, and then the warm, slightly stale air of a little-used entryway. “Stairs to your right,” Baze mumbles, a little bit awkwardly. “They’re a bit steep.”

“Thank you,” Chirrut says smoothly. He’s braced for the _watch out_ , but it never comes, and soon he’s being ushered into Baze’s apartment, temperate and smelling faintly of cardamom and burnt licorice. The space feels noticeably bigger than the stairwell, but it’s too quiet to judge the size through sound alone.

“Well,” Baze says, standing behind him now, his heat warm enough even from a short distance to bleed through Chirrut’s shirt. “This is it. Ah, about… twenty paces across and twenty-five long? There’s a couch to your right and forward a bit. Kitchen is to the left. Would you rather I gave you a tour, or did you want to explore while I get things set up?”

Chirrut wasn’t expecting the offer, and it startles him into being honest. “I’ll poke around, if you don’t mind.”

“Feel free. I’ll make us some tea.”

He listens to Baze’s sturdy footfalls, moving left, growing firmer as he leaves carpet for something else. Tile, perhaps, or hardwood. He keeps one ear trained on his clattering in the kitchen and turns the rest of his attention to exploring. He moves slowly at first, mapping the living room with his cane and his feet. Then he sets the cane aside and traces the furniture with his hands, pausing now and then to admire the little details: the soft, knobbly texture of a throw tossed over the back of the couch, the stiff fronds of the palm shrub that takes up half the bay window.

When he’s done, he finds his way to the kitchen. An island takes up the bulk of the space, with a smooth wood countertop that feels well-worn, and mismatched metal stools padded with cushions.

“Good choice,” Baze says when he sits down. “I think you picked the only stool that doesn’t tip when you sit on it.”

Chirrut laughs and tucks his cane out of the way. “They have character, then. Well loved.”

“Well _used_ , maybe. I think Jyn found them at a thrift store and insisted on bringing them home.” He sets a cup in front of Chirrut with a soft _tik_ , and oolong steam rises to kiss his cheeks, benevolent and soothing. “Yours is an ungodly yellow. I only let her keep it because of the daisies stenciled on the back.”

Chirrut traces the rim of his cup with a finger, testing the heat. “You have a fondness for daisies?”

“Yeah.” He sounds embarrassed about it, but Chirrut doesn’t laugh at him. “I like flowers. I guess you wouldn’t know—I decorate a lot of my finished products with edible blossoms. Here. Hold out your hand.”

Chirrut does so, and a moment later something very light is deposited in his palm. He feels the smooth petals, the little pointed tip blooming outward, and smiles. “Nasturtium?”

“Mmhm.”

Baze is doing something he can’t quite make out. Organizing his space, most likely. Chirrut pops the nasturtium in his mouth and grins with flowers in his teeth at Baze’s choked laughter. “Do you need me to do anything?” he asks, once he’s swallowed around the bright sting of the petals’ spice.

“No, no. Just sit and enjoy your tea. And the, um, ambiance?” He gives a self-conscious huff of laughter. “You’ve said you feel like I’m cooking just for you, sometimes, so. I wanted to try and do that.”

“Sounds delightful. I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he admits, curling his hands around the teacup.

Baze makes a little throaty noise, deep in his chest. Embarrassment? Or pleasure? “Me too,” he murmurs, and Chirrut thinks, _definitely the latter._

“What are you making for me today? Or is it a secret?”

“Zhajiang mian,” Baze replies promptly. “Like I promised.”

“Ahhhh.” The tea is good. Perfectly steeped. A propane burner _clangs_ against the counter and flicks on, lighting the air briefly with the smell of gas. It dissipates just as quickly, and Chirrut stills himself, sitting quiet and small in his chair, elbows tucked in, his body withdrawn to focus all of its energy on _listening_.

“I already made the noodles,” Baze says, apologetic. “They would have taken too long otherwise. But I can show you how I do it—I left a little dough aside.”

Chirrut’s brief tinge of disappointment melts away into delight. “How thoughtful! Perhaps after we eat you can show me your methods.”

Then the last of their stuttering conversation fades into nothing as Baze begins to cook in earnest. Chirrut knows what goes into zhajiang mian, which feels a bit like cheating, but he forces himself to rely on his nose and his ears more than his memory. The fresh, tangy smell of napa cabbage springs into the air with each crinkly _shuk_ of Baze’s knife, and then a burst of onion and garlic that’s strong enough to draw tears to his eyes. He laughs and wipes his nose, accepts the box of tissues Baze offers apologetically. But Baze is weepy, too, and he makes quick work of it, dumping the lot into a hot pan to caramelize.

Under the warm sizzle of sauteing onion, he catches a whiff of something else. Something spicy and fresh. He leans forward, trying not to be too obvious about it, and is pleasantly surprised when it grows stronger and the _scritch_ of a sharp knife being dragged through something fibrous is audible very near to his face. Ginger root. A few shavings fall against the backs of his knuckles, and he inhales deeply.

“Did you want me to… narrate, at all?” Baze hedges, the first words he’s spoken in a few minutes. His voice sounds a little bit rusty, a little hoarse—Chirrut wonders if it’s entirely natural, or if Baze smokes. Or used to smoke. If he had a current habit, Chirrut would be able to smell it on him.

“No, no. This is perfect. Better than the videos,” he laughs, though there’s a wistful edge to his voice that he can’t quite erase. “Being able to smell the ingredients makes it a lot easier to follow along. Let’s see.” He presses his fingertips together under his nose. “Garlic, onion, ginger… what’s next? The vegetables, if I recall correctly?”

“That’s right.” Baze rattles the pan a little, underscored by the hiss of escaping steam. “Then the meat sauce.”

“Spoilers!” Chirrut teases. He folds his hands in front of him, arms on the counter, and finds the ginger peels. Before Baze can apologize, he’s sweeping them into a little pile and picking up each one, feeling the curled edges and wafting them under his nose.

///

It’s not unlike working under the unblinking eye of the camera. Chirrut passes no judgement, nor does he offer advice or ask questions. He just observes, silently and in his own way. It’s not at all like cooking for Jyn. She likes to sit in here, too, while he cooks, in the very stool that Chirrut now occupies, but she’s usually focused on homework or texting one of her friends. Baze is just background noise for her. For Chirrut, he is center stage. It’s… gratifying.

When the vegetables have softened to his satisfaction, Baze scrapes the contents of the pan into a bowl and adds a fresh dollop of oil for the sauce. Chirrut politely requests to be allowed to handle all the jars of ingredients, and he sniffs each one before passing it back. Meanwhile, Baze browns the shiitake mushrooms in the pan, rustling it with a spatula to keep them loose and crumbly.

One by one the rest of the ingredients come together, until the kitchen is bright and savory with the blended aromas. Chirrut keeps licking his lips, which Baze finds utterly distracting; he almost burns his thumb on the edge of the pan because he can’t stop staring at his pretty pink mouth.

“Ah. The infamous noodles,” Chirrut murmurs when he hears Baze put a pot of water on to boil.

“Here. Hold out your hand.” When Chirrut does so, unquestioning, Baze spools a single fresh noodle into his palm. The dough comes apart easily at the pinch of thumb and forefinger, still uncooked, and Chirrut pops a tiny bit into his mouth to roll around his tongue. Baze grows hot under the collar and turns away.

“Hmm. Wheat flour?”

“Common mistake, using rice noodles. Wheat has more substance, more chew—it stands up better to the bold flavors of the sauce.” He braces himself instinctively for laughter—Jyn teases him mercilessly whenever he pulls out his _chef voice_ , as she calls it—but Chirrut only looks fascinated.

“You made these by hand?”

“I did. I can show you after dinner—though you probably already know how,” he adds in an embarrassed mumble.

“I’ve never pulled noodles before, actually,” Chirrut says. “I’d be honored if you would teach me.”

While Chirrut nibbles on the uncooked noodle, Baze slices up a cucumber into thin matchsticks and keeps one eye on the pot. It’s a fairly simple dish, and quick to prepare, but he finds himself swallowing back anxiety as he tests the noodles for doneness and brings out the sieve.

“Wine?” he asks belatedly, as he hunts for the nice dishes. Not that Chirrut would notice, or care, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Just water, please.” Chirrut sits forward eagerly in his seat as Baze sets his plate in front of him.

“Chopsticks are to your left. Water, upper right.” He drags one of the stools around to the opposite side of the island, so they’re facing one another, and sticks a finger in the sauce to taste. _Perfect._ He can’t help but feel relief even as Chirrut takes his first bite.

Baze feels as if he’s watching an intensely private moment. Chirrut’s face goes smooth and unwrinkled as he chews, chopsticks hovering near his chin to snap up a few stray noodles that slither free from his mouth. He slides his tongue around his mouth after he’s swallowed, savoring the aftertaste, and then sighs. “Yes. That is exactly right.” He stabs his chopsticks at Baze. “And _now_ you must tell me where you learned to pull noodles like that. They’re _perfect_.”

All of Baze’s fears about being acceptably social fade away in the next half-hour. Chirrut grills him on his noodle techniques, somehow balancing fervent curiosity with calm—where Baze might freeze up and mysteriously forget two decades of kitchen experience, for Chirrut the words come easily, even bountifully. He rambles about the noodle pulling workshop for nearly ten minutes, and from there it’s smooth sailing. Chirrut talks about his own start with cooking, how he cultivated it after losing his sight to a hereditary condition, and in turn pulls Baze’s own story out of him—how he turned to cooking when he found himself sole custodian of a little girl with curious tastebuds and an endless appetite for good food.

“Her mother…” Chirrut begins, not quite a question.

“It’s all right, I don’t mind talking about it. It was… an accident, actually.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “We were never married, hardly even dated. She ended up with someone else, and wasn’t too keen on keeping the kid. My lifestyle was more suited to childrearing, so. Here we are.” It’s the short version, and Chirrut must know it, but he doesn’t press for details. They both know it’s a conversation better suited to a later date.

“She seems to have acquired at least a little of your talent in the kitchen,” Chirrut says.

“She’s good with her hands,” Baze agrees. “Good with the details. Always been better at pastry than I am. Her croissants…” He shakes his head admiringly, then remembers Chirrut can’t see him. It’s strangely easy to forget—between his excellent deductive skills and his unwavering focus, Baze can almost feel the weight of his attention as palpably as if he had a hand on his arm at all times. “Well, they’re to die for, frankly.”

Chirrut laughs, and the sound lifts the hairs on Baze’s nape in audiocentric sympathy. He’s so _personable_ up close, so easy to like and laugh with and talk to. He never really doubted it—not when his cooking videos are so full of life and vigor—but imagining something and living it are two very different things.

“I’ll have to try them sometime, then,” Chirrut says, and that opens up a whole new host of possibilities in Baze’s mind. Chirrut joining them for breakfast on a weekend, when Jyn doesn’t have class and Baze doesn’t have to be at the shop, sitting together on the veranda with a basket of croissants and cups of chai. Walks in the park after, while Jyn takes her board to the skate ramp and tries her damndest to take all the skin off her knees and elbows.

Baze suddenly becomes aware of the silence, as if Chirrut were waiting for an answer. “Yes, you should,” he blurts, and flushes a dull red when Chirrut smiles, slow and sly like a crocodile.

“Oh, excellent. I wasn’t sure I was interpreting this correctly.” He pushes his empty bowl aside and lets his hand rest on the table, palm down, fingers curled loosely against the wood like an invitation.

Baze blushes harder. _Yes, you should_ , he’d said, and… well, what was the harm in it? He’d been thinking it, and so had Chirrut, apparently. With a little shrug, mainly for his own benefit, he slides his hand across to meet Chirrut’s halfway, covering his knuckles with gentle fingers.

“I wasn’t sure, either,” he admits. “But I’m glad we’re… accidentally on the same page.”

Chirrut’s eyes crinkle up like semi-transparent paper, casting shadows that Baze longs to trace with his fingertips. “As am I.”

Baze draws an uncertain breath into the quiet. “Would you… care for dessert? It’s nothing fancy, just some tarts I made ahead of time—”

“I would love dessert,” Chirrut says before he can talk himself into a hole. He smiles to soften the interruption and turns his hand to lace their fingers together. “Is it the lemon tart you filmed last week, by any chance?”

“It… yes. You said you liked that one.” In a moment of daring, Baze lifts Chirrut’s hand and kisses the back before detangling himself and pushing away from the counter. “Just a second.”

He fetches two lemon tartlets from the fridge, and snags a whole lemon from the fruit bowl on his way back. “Just a little garnish,” he explains, and grates a fine dust of lemon zest onto the tops of the tarts. The grater makes a gentle rasping sound as it rubs against the peel, and when Baze glances up at him, Chirrut is listening closely with a pink bloom on his cheeks to match his pink-bitten lower lip.

“You certainly know how to woo a man,” he says appreciatively when Baze sets the little tart in front of him with a miniature fork to match. The raspberries on top bow slightly under the pressure of his finger as he feels out the edges of it. He licks a trace of lemon curd from his finger, after, and Baze has to struggle to catch his breath.

“Good food tends to do that pretty well, I find,” he says weakly.

“Among other things.” Chirrut’s smile is dazzling as Baze pulls up a stool next to him this time. Their knees knock together under the counter, and Chirrut lets his left hand drop to the top of Baze’s thigh at he tucks into his dessert. “You’ve been nothing but considerate this evening, Baze. It’s silly, but I must thank you.”

Baze lifts one shoulder in an insouciant shrug. “I just… wanted you to enjoy yourself. I know a little bit about experiencing the world through other senses, so. I tried to, um, exploit that.”

“It was a successful endeavor, I think,” Chirrut smiles. “Can I ask, what other senses did you mean?”

“My daugher, Jyn. She’s hard of hearing. She gets by pretty well with hearing aids, but when she was a kid we had trouble finding ones that worked for her, so we’re both pretty fluent in sign language. I used to read her bedtime stories with her head against my chest so she could feel the vibrations. She would look at the pictures and sometimes, when I could find them, the pages had perfumed patches for her to smell.”

“A lucky girl,” Chirrut says, sounding fond and utterly charmed. Baze isn’t far behind. “Is she here now?”

“No. She’s a college student, so she’ll be at the library until the wee hours, most likely.” He feels the sudden, subtle grip of Chirrut’s hand tightening on his thigh. “So, you know. Don’t feel that you have to rush out the door for her sake.”

Chirrut smirks. “Does she know her father has a _man_ over?”

“She does,” Baze admits. He sets his fork down, the tart only half-finished—there are other things on his mind. “I don’t date very often, and she’s been pestering me lately to _find someone_ , so… I told her. Mostly to get her off my back, but I think it backfired, because she hasn’t stopped talking about you for _days_.”

This pulls a laugh out of him, low and throaty. His teeth are white and a little too big for his mouth when he grins, and Baze wants desperately to kiss him. “Well, good! As long as I have her approval.”

“So far so good.” Baze isn’t even sure what he means by that, and he doesn’t think he cares. All he can focus on is Chirrut, the loose drape of his wrist against the countertop, the weight of his other hand on Baze’s thigh. He eases his legs apart a little further, a _making room_ sort of gesture, and Chirrut’s smile grows indolent.

“I’ll try to keep on track,” he says softly, and leans forward. Baze, after the slightest hesitation, meets him halfway.

Part of him can’t believe this is really happening. The man he was admiring from afar just a few weeks ago—on a _youtube channel_ , no less—is now in his kitchen, practically in his _lap_ , smiling through the ebb and flow of their lips together. He tastes like lemon, with just a little bit of ginger-garlic in the background, and Baze licks cautiously into his mouth to test the waters. Chirrut hums and opens for him, and Baze is lost.

It’s been so long. He honestly can’t remember the last time he had a warm body in his arms, in his bed. And Chirrut fills that empty space so easily. He’s turned in the chair, now, sitting sideways with his knees digging into the outside of Baze’s thigh, leaning forward with an eagerness that Baze is scrambling to match. He _does_ match it, in his intent, but his body feels slow on the uptake, like it’s half-forgotten what it’s supposed to do.

Then Chirrut pulls back the slightest bit and breathes, damp against his cheek, “You can kiss me harder, if you like,” and Baze sees stars.

He turns in his chair to meet him, and this is easier on his back—easier to suck his lower lip into his mouth and dot tiny, nibbling kisses to the soft cut of his jaw while he rubs his hands up Chirrut’s thighs. He’s dressed similarly to Baze in a pair of snug, comfortable jeans, and the heat of him bleeds straight through. Chirrut sighs and tilts his head at this new touch, inviting him nearer, and Baze willingly goes, dragging his open mouth along the curve of his neck.

He tastes like he smells, clean and fresh. It’s somehow more erotic than any of the multitude of wet, tonguing kisses they’ve already shared, and Baze feels a stirring deep inside, hot and grasping, implacable. His grip tightens just above Chirrut’s knees. God, it’s been so long. _Too_ long. He feels a little bit churlish, like an anxious youth buzzing with hormones, as he slips off his stool and hitches Chirrut’s thighs around his waist.

“Mngh.” Chirrut makes a sound in his throat, and he clings to Baze’s shoulders at the shift. Their groins aren’t flush together, quite, but Baze thinks they’re both self-aware enough to know where this is going.

“This okay?” he asks, just to make sure. His left arm is braced against the counter, rubbing the soft knit of Chirrut’s raglan shirt, and his right is busy massaging the firm muscle of his thigh. Chirrut is slim, but _damn_ he feels like he’s got a model’s physique underneath his simple clothes—simply cut, that is, but the fabrics feel decadent under Baze’s hands. Chirrut is the sort of man who can afford to have his t-shirts tailored.

“I,” Chirrut sighs, ruddy-cheeked, before sagging forward to catch his mouth in another kiss. It’s softer than the one before, a little shallower. Baze follows his lead and keeps it light, and when it breaks, Chirrut is whittling his lower lip with his teeth anxiously. “It feels amazing, Baze. It really does.”

Baze tries not to take the sting of disappointment personally. “But?” he says, already easing back—but Chirrut grabs for his shirt, clinging to the fabric with his fists, and so he stands still, hovering uncertainly between lust and good manners.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be wishy-washy.” Chirrut smooths the rumpled fabric of his shirt and just rests his hands on his shoulders, a little tic of a half-smile jumping in his cheek. “Tonight has been utterly wonderful so far, and I don’t want to ruin it with… complications.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Baze soothes. “I don’t mind talking things out. I, uh, didn’t mean to jump on you like that, by the way. You’re just, um.” _Fucking gorgeous_ , his brain supplies, but his mouth refuses to cooperate. Chirrut’s smile grows wider, and his eyes crinkle up until their cloudy grey hue is nearly disguised by the dark thatch of his lashes.

“I’ll take your speechlessness as a compliment,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes the side of Baze’s neck gently, and he can’t stop the resultant shiver that runs down his spine. “All right, since you’re so eager to please. Perhaps another cup of tea to settle us, and we can… discuss things.”

Baze hums agreement and eases away from the island. It’s harder than it should be. Something about Chirrut is magnetizing, drawing him in—even when he manages to break away, Chirrut grabs hold of one hand and presses a kiss to the palm. Baze flushes at the tender gesture and goes to fiddle with the kettle.

“I haven’t offended you, have I?” Chirrut asks a little while later, when they’ve settled on the futon that serves as Baze’s bed. It’s a small apartment, and he decided a long time ago to give Jyn the only bedroom, so this corner of the living area belongs to him. There’s no real partition, just a bookshelf and some strategically-placed furniture to give the illusion of privacy, but it’s enough that he feels cozy with his legs tucked under himself and Chirrut pressed against his side.

“Not at all,” he says honestly. He cradles his tea in both hands, resisting the urge to slide one onto Chirrut’s knee. He’s sitting with both feet on the floor and his cane in easy reach, propped against the arm of the futon; it feels a bit like a barrier, even though it’s nowhere near Baze. Or perhaps a reminder. “I promise I don’t normally conduct myself like a fourteen-year-old boy.”

Chirrut laughs, and it eases some of the tension in his chest. “Believe me, if it were that bad I would already be gone. No, you’re a complete gentleman. And I appreciate it.” He sips his tea and hums, like a teacher settling himself to tell a story. “What you said before—you were right. It’s not complicated, really. It only becomes complicated when other people enter the picture. I am not entirely celibate, though Bodhi sometimes accuses me of living like a monk. But it _is_ difficult to find partners who are… receptive to my particular needs. I am very proud, Baze. Too proud, I think. I know it’s a failing of mine. But I hate, with passion, to feel as if I’m a burden on someone else, or that they’re bending over backward to accommodate me. I don’t _need_ accommodation. I just want to be met halfway. In all aspects of life, as well as sex.”

Baze frowns. “Is it really so difficult for people to treat you like a human being?”

“It’s not always so cut and dried. I have had excellent partners, considerate ones, but I have also had my share of partners who fail to keep to a pace I’m comfortable with. Or, worse, partners who coddle me, and make everything feel like a chore. I don’t need to be handles with kid gloves; only listened to, and understood.” He kicks back the last swallow of tea and smiles when Baze takes the cup from him easily, not even saying a word. “I asked if you were offended, earlier, because I want to proceed with care—for both of us. We haven’t known each other long, but I like you very much. You’re considerate. You’re patient. And, frankly, the sound of your voice should be illegal.”

Baze barks a startled laugh and thinks, _to hell with it._ He puts his free hand down on Chirrut’s knee, and is pleasantly surprised when Chirrut immediately places his own hand over it. “I _think_ that’s a good thing, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Chirrut purrs. He leans his head against Baze’s shoulder, familiar as an age-old friend, and laces their fingers together.

“How does this work, then?” Baze asks, ignoring the snugness of his jeans. “Do you want to call it a night? Or just… take it slow?”

“Take it slow, definitely,” Chirrut answers right away. “If you’re still keen, that is. Truthfully I didn’t mind what you were doing before, I just… wanted us to be on the same page.”

“Right. Only, I need a _little_ more to go on.” He squeezes Chirrut’s thigh and gets a low hum in response. “Is anything off limits? Anything you’d rather not do?”

Chirrut makes a thoughtful sound in his throat. “Let’s keep it to hands and mouths for tonight. Anything else I’d like a trip to the clinic for, just as a courtesy.”

Baze grows warm and prickly under the collar at the words _hands and mouths_ , and he clears his throat to try and gain some traction. “Right. I can work with that.”

Apparently that’s an invitation—one that Chirrut is happy to take him up on. Baze finds himself pressed against the back of the futon as Chirrut climbs straight into his lap and settles there, already homing in for a kiss. Baze meets him clumsily, lips sliding and catching off-center before finding firmer ground. Chirrut grips him by the chin, thumb stroking the short beard he keeps neatly trimmed, and holds him there so he can lick inside his mouth.

Baze slams his eyes shut and groans deep in his chest, planting his hands on Chirrut’s hips where they feel safest. He’s lithe under his grip, never still, shifting this way and that in a teasing frot that stirs his blood and makes him want to pin Chirrut to the mattress and have at it. But he reins himself in, digs his fingers into the softer flesh of Chirrut’s ass, and grounds himself in the heavy weight of Chirrut draped across his lap in a decadent pile.

 _Slow_ , Baze quickly learns, is not synonymous with _shy_. Chirrut delights in expressing himself—in making little groans and sighs, in running his hands wherever he pleases. He mouths hungrily at Baze’s throat as his hands massage his broad chest through his t-shirt, and Baze moans, hitching him closer.

“You can take it off, if you want,” he rasps. He allows himself to grope Chirrut’s backside, and preens a little when Chirrut chokes and grinds forward against his belt buckle. “My shirt, I mean.”

Chirrut drags his mouth away and toys with the hem, sliding his palms up underneath when Baze hums approval. “My god, you’re solid,” he murmurs. There’s a wicked edge to his smile that Baze thinks he likes. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He pulls the fabric up and off, chasing it with hands on Baze’s ribs and a mouth to his collarbone. The angle pushes Chirrut’s crotch out of range—this, Baze decides unilaterally, is unacceptable. While Chirrut is preoccupied with kissing his chest and squeezing his nipples, Baze gets a solid grip on his hips and carefully, carefully turns Chirrut onto his back and crawls up over him. Chirrut moans and grabs at his shoulders, and Baze swallows the sound with his mouth.

“Still good?” he murmurs, one hand rubbing circles on Chirrut’s flat belly.

“Still—still good.” His breath hitches and he fumbles with Baze’s belt and fly, tearing them open one after the other. Baze groans as his dick is eased from its confines, pushing eagerly against the front placket of his boxer briefs. Chirrut smiles slyly and gives his girth a good feel. “Oh, delightful. Just like it says on the tin.”

Baze snort-laughs and smothers his grin in Chirrut’s neck. “What…?”

“You’re a big boy _all over_ , Baze Malbus.”

“Incorrigible,” Baze mutters. He worries the thin skin under his lips with his teeth, then sucks, laving his throat in long, soothing stripes as Chirrut whines and writhes. “Want a hand?”

Chirrut pouts. “You’re a tease.”

“You deserve it.” Baze kisses his plump lips swiftly, gentling the accusation. “Pants. Off.”

“Mmmnh. Yes _sir_ ,” Chirrut purrs, laughing when Baze blows a raspberry under his collar in retaliation.

Chirrut makes short work of his jeans but keeps his briefs and raglan on; following his lead, Baze kicks off his jeans and shoes and settles between his legs with his underwear still on, relishing the layers of cotton and polyester that soften the sharpness of his arousal. He’s not a teenager anymore, but _damn_ it’s been awhile since he’s put his junk against someone else’s junk, and the wildfire under his skin is threatening to consume all good sense.

“That feels… _oh_ … delightful,” Chirrut breathes. He anchors himself with a hand in Baze’s hair and loops his calves around Baze’s hips as Baze ruts against him; short, hard thrusts that chase a steady, bone-deep burn without threatening to end things too quickly.

Baze scoops a hand under him and palms his ass for a better angle. “Glad you approve.” He watches Chirrut’s face bloom a brighter red and smiles, nudging at his mouth for a kiss. “You like being manhandled a little, huh?”

“That obvious?” Chirrut laughs. He cups Baze’s face in his hands and draws him down to rest their foreheads together, noses nudging and breaths mingling with every press of their hips. “I am… a touch predictable, I admit— _ahhh_. Oh, god, that’s nice.”

Baze smiles. He’s got himself propped up on one elbow—the other had been holding Chirrut harder against him, but now it drags lower, pushing his knuckles to the space behind Chirrut’s balls. Even through fabric he can feel how hot and damp he is, sweating out his pleasure, trapped between Baze’s hand and his cock. “You ever had a man eat you out before, Imwe?”

Chirrut chokes. “I—I have not had that pleasure, no.”

Baze kisses his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, easing the pace back a notch or two. “No pressure, just thought I’d offer.” Another kiss, wet and clinging, and he growls his confession in Chirrut’s ear, “I want to _eat you up_.”

Chirrut cries out and arches up against him as his blush crawls angrily down his throat to his chest. He grabs for Baze’s shoulders and lifts his chin to kiss him, open-mouthed and biting. “Fuck,” he breathes when they part. He flops back on the futon and pushes at Baze’s chest, pushes at the waistband of his own briefs. “Fuck _slow_ , I want you _right now_.”

Genuinely startled, Baze sits back on his heels and watches him struggle out of the rest of his clothes. He palms his cock absently as the shirt is finally dragged away—the cut of Chirrut’s upper body is _absurd_ , toned and lean, the same perfect golden brown everywhere. And then his briefs are on the ground and Baze moans, shoves his own waistband down to fist his cock. “Fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, reaching down with his free hand to stroke the open stretch of Chirrut’s inner thigh. Chirrut squirms and sighs, rubs up over his own chest with his hands until his nipples are dark and flushed like the rest of him.

“Did you not hear me, Malbus?”

“Oh, I heard.” He gives him a gentle pinch at the crux of his thigh and leans down. “You tell me if you want to ease off, okay?”

Chirrut hums and arches his head back, baring his throat. It’s a shockingly submissive pose—would be, if it weren’t for the devious, delighted smile stretching at the corners of his mouth. “Naturally.”

Baze licks into his navel and takes hold of his dick in the same movement. Chirrut bucks beneath him, startled, but the clasp of his thighs around Baze’s ears is nothing but encouragement. He winds his fingers in Baze’s hair and Baze rewards him with a slow, firm stroke and the tickling progression of his tongue down, down below his balls, back to lave and suck at his perineum. Above him, Chirrut moans low in his throat and cups the back of his head encouragingly.

As with everything else, Chirrut is fastidious with his personal hygiene. Baze takes great pleasure in licking broad, wet swathes with his tongue, slurping at his hole and pressing in with his tongue, tasting only skin and soap. He strokes Chirrut’s cock idly, more interested in what he’s doing with his mouth.

Chirrut is, too, by the sound of it. He whimpers and grabs at Baze’s hair, at his own thighs, holding himself open wide. Baze eases a finger inside his body alongside his tongue, slick with his own saliva, and Chirrut shudders violently.

“Beautiful,” Baze murmurs, lips forming the words against Chirrut’s inner thigh. He’s damp with sweat, here, smelling violently of sex, and when Baze nibbles gently on that tender stretch of skin, Chirrut goes rigid.

“Baze—Baze, oh, _oh_ fuck…”

“All right?”

“Yes… oh…” Chirrut reaches for his own erection but Baze nudges him away, taking the head into his mouth as he presses another finger in. He massages from within while his tongue laps insistently at Chirrut’s frenulum, and he’s prepared for the surge of salt and bitter against his tongue when Chirrut comes.

Wheezing and gasping, Chirrut collapses against the couch. One legs sprawls so wide that it threatens to slip off the edge. Baze catches it with a hand behind his knee and eases it down gently. “All right, sweetheart?”

Chirrut mumbles something unintelligible and lifts his hands to his own face.

“Chirrut?”

A little worried, Baze leans down and is met with fingers against his cheek and a smiling, soft-lipped mouth. “I said,” Chirrut murmurs against his cheek, “so much for getting tested.”

Baze coughs. “I…”

“It’s fine,” Chirrut soothes. “I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, I just… was attempting to give some legitimacy to _going slow_.”

“There doesn’t have to be a reason,” Baze says carefully. “I’m sorry that I… circumvented that.”

“No apologies, my dear. I can be a bit… demanding, in the heat of the moment.” He pushes himself up to sitting and strokes both hands down Baze’s chest, eyes glimmering. “Will you let me return the favor?”

Baze shivers and catches hold of his hips as Chirrut slides into his lap. Kneeling up like this, he can feel Chirrut’s softening cock against his thigh, still damp with his own saliva. Chirrut tucks his chin down and kisses the side of Baze’s neck, stroking slow, spiralling shapes around Baze’s pectorals. “Uhhnnn…”

“Is that a yes?” Chirrut breathes. His fingers pinch lightly at Baze’s nipples and he tightens his grip on Chirrut’s thighs. “Or a… no?”

“It’s.” Baze swallows. “It’s a yes. Chirrut, god…”

“Hmmm.” Chirrut smiles even as he nibbles his way along Baze’s collarbone. One hand stays where it is, feeling up Baze’s chest; the other sneaks down, knuckles following the trail of hair down his belly to where his cock stands up out of the top of his boxer briefs. He rubs the tip with his first two fingers, spreading the slick that wells up at his touch. “Ohhh, yes. This is just lovely.”

Baze chokes a laugh. “Do you always talk this much during sex?”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not—not in the slightest.” He muffles a needy whine behind his teeth as Chirrut gets a hand around his girth and tugs, shoving his briefs out of the way with every stroke. “Oh, god…”

“Do you want my mouth?” Chirrut murmurs, his voice as low and languid as the movement of his wrist. “Or will my hand suffice?”

“Between your hand,” Baze gasps, “and your voice, I won’t take very long.” His eyes slam shut and he moans, unashamed, driven to the brink by the unrelenting pleasure of Chirrut’s touch. “I’ve—it’s been a, a long time for me, too. Mmh…”

Chirrut kisses him. Swallows the groans that bubble up, licking greedily into his mouth as his hand picks up speed. Baze’s hips kick forward and he tumbles Chirrut back onto the futon, braced over him—his thighs flex and strain as he fucks Chirrut’s fist, and he runs his mouth over every inch of Chirrut he can reach. His chest in particular, smooth and toned, almost entirely hairless. Over his collarbones, his tender throat. Beneath his arms where he’s damp and smells of warm, sweaty, _delicious_ man.

“Tell me,” Chirrut commands, voice shaking. “Tell me when you come. I want to feel it.”

Baze chokes. “Fuck. Fuck, Chirrut, you—” He sucks a livid mark into the side of his neck, claws at the pillows and breathes, hot and desperate into his ear, “You’re going to make me come.”

Chirrut makes a soft, delighted sound in his throat and twists his grip around the shaft. His other hand slides down Baze’s front and dances lightly across the head of his dick, stroking, _waiting_. Baze shuts his eyes and lets it go.

He makes a mess of Chirrut’s hands. When he looks down, gasping like he’s run a marathon, semen is dripping stickily from Chirrut’s fingers, down his wrist. Chirrut hums and rubs his hand over himself, his flushed lower belly and spent cock, and Baze’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Stop that,” he rasps, sinking back onto his knees. “I’m too old for this, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

Chirrut snickers. “You’re no fun.”

“Hmph.” After a few deep breaths, Baze climbs carefully to his feet. “Stay there and relax, I’m going to get us some washcloths.”

“Such a gentleman,” Chirrut purrs. He’s entirely boneless, laying with his eyes half-shut through sheer laziness. He clearly has no intention of moving. After a minute, he jerks his chin upward and asks, “Well? Are you going, or are you just going to stand there and stare all night?”

“Um. Right, sorry.” Baze shakes his head to dispel the hazy cloud of orgasm still infusing his skull. “Be right back.”

Chirrut is exactly where he left him when Baze returns a minute later. He stays put while Baze wipes him down, and only then does he sit up, feeling about for his clothes. His cane, Baze notes, was knocked to the floor a while ago; he makes a mental note to pick it up in a second. “When are you expecting your daughter home?”

“She said she would text me when she left the library.” Baze digs around for his phone and finds the screen still empty. “So, not yet.” He hesitates, then reaches out and puts a hand on Chirrut’s thigh as he struggles to put his raglan back on straight. “You don’t have to rush off.”

Chirrut’s head pops out of the neck hole, smiling, and he reaches out to touch Baze’s cheek. His lips follow. Unable to resist, Baze turns and kisses his mouth, hands clinging to the soft, comfortable stretch of Chirrut’s hips. “I didn’t want to presume…”

“Mmph. Presume away.” He sucks Chirrut’s delectable lower lip into his mouth and releases it with a soft _pop_. “Besides, I promised to show you how to pull noodles.”

“True!” Chirrut grins and springs up from the couch like a pogo stick, wearing just his rumpled shirt and nothing else. Baze resists the urge to slap his bare ass. “Help me find my pants and I’m all yours.”


End file.
